Wallenda, On The Job with a DUI

Our girl finds a job in a Marijuana Dispensary & since she smells like pot, she is pulled over by the police and given a DUI.

My name is Wallenda. I'm a twenty-two-year-old woman, and "No," I don't have a dog face. I'm pretty good-looking. I've been known to stop traffic with my erect boobs and curvy ass, but I know my pussy is the magnet that attracts men to my side.

I was named after that family of high-wire artists, "Yes," the tightrope walkers from the circus, the ones who, unfortunately, were always falling down. I share that tendency as I often find myself on my back with some guy I hardly know having his workout. I think my Mom got pregnant the night she went to the circus with one of her boyfriends, which I'm not sure about. We know it was the same night the Wallenda's came to town. Sounds stupid? Well, we gals have to find some way to remember the dates we performed the dirty.

I guess the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. I've been sexually active for a long while. I grew up in Idaho, where the farmers grow corn and have dicks as big as corn cobs. My Dad disappeared sometime in the Paleolithic after finding Mom sucking on a corn cob, I'm sure you know what I mean. As a result of his disappearance, Mom had a bevy of guys, one after another, who lived with us off and on until Mom remarried.

That golden day took place when I was eighteen. Morris Yanovich, my stepdad, was a patient man. He waited until I was a legal age before he started molesting me. He said he was waiting for my tits to stop growing. By then, I was a full-sized 38 double D. Not wanting to cause my Mom any grief, I thought it best to keep my mouth shut, although sometimes that wasn't possible. Stepdad had a very big and persistent penis, kind of a heat-seeking or mouth-seeking missile.

I'd come home from a date, half-crocked on booze or high on weed, and while Mom was busy snoring, Yanovichi would slip into my bedroom and try to fuck me. He was a strong fucker. He couldn't keep his hands off my titties. Sometimes, I was able to put him off with a hand job. Other times, I was too spacey to resist him, and that was when he'd get what he wanted. If I refused to suck his cock, he'd grab me by my ponytail and jerk off onto my hair. I'll admit his cum load was an excellent hair conditioner. Mom would say how great my hair looked in the morning. I didn't tell her why. It would have broken her heart.

I had to put up with his groping, eventually giving in and sucking his cock so I could get some sleep. Finally, he was into fucking me, real hard, just about every Saturday night, often leaving his load on top of the guys I was dating. The night came when I had enough, and I decided I had to move on. Mom said as soon as I left, Stepdad began to take a new interest in her, telling me,

"You have to have patience with a husband; sometimes they will come around."

Sure--cum around.

On my 20th birthday, I made my move, dropped out of Junior College, and ran away from home with Gary, a guy I met in a sports bar. He came by my place at 5 a.m. with his old jeep, and I snuck out the door. We drove out to his Uncle's farm in Oregon. We stayed there for a few months. Of course, we pitched in with the farm work to help out. His Uncle Abner was quiet, except for his cheap cigars, and unlike my stepdad, it looked like he would leave me alone.

What broke the bank was an argument Gary and I had. I can't even remember what stupid thing it was about, but Gary slammed the door and went out that night drinking with his farm boy buddies. He didn't come back till about three in the morning, and by that point, my pussy was full. Uncle Abner had slipped into my bed. I was half asleep, but thinking it was Gary, I didn't resist. I figured it was makeup sex, but when that fucking rapist started calling me a dirty cunt, I realized who'd had me. Worse, his breath smelled terrible, like a stale cigar.

Of course, Gary, the loyal nephew, didn't believe Uncle Abner had raped me.

"Even if he fucked you, it's cause you are always going around half-naked, it's your fault, you made him do it. You are too horny for any one guy to satisfy."

That last nasty line was my exit cue. I'd found a hippy newspaper at the summer festival in town a few weeks before the Abner incident. There was an article about a hippie farm commune called the "Love Life Commune," where holistic life and new age lifestyle were practiced. I figured I'd give it a try.

I took all the money out of a tobacco jar where Uncle Abner hid his change and set out with my small suitcase for the highway, intent on hitchhiking to Utah to see what the Commune was all about. I got lucky. Two college kids, Mormons, Brother Adam, and Brother Joseph, headed for Utah, saw me by the side of the road in my short skirt and tight scoop-necked red sweater and slowed their noisy Ford pickup truck to a stop. I got in between the two of them. They seemed pretty nice and didn't bother me, although one of them, Joseph, kept looking sideways at my tits and getting a hard-on. Boys will be boys. I said nothing.

It was a lovely drive that would take most of the day. When we stopped at noon, I offered to buy them lunch at a hamburger place. I paid mostly with quarters. For the rest of the drive, we listened to Bible tapes. The boys said they were heading right past the Love Life Commune and were kind enough to drop me off outside the gate where there was a big sign just by the side of the highway decorated with some green floral design.

When I got out of the car, I leaned into the window to thank them. I didn't realize I was showing off my cleavage. Brother Joseph popped another boner. I reached in and gave his dick a quick squeeze. Talk about Morman's efficiency; my palm was wet in three seconds.

Brother Joseph offered to carry my suitcase past the front gate. Before we got there, he started fooling around, grabbing my tits, so I pulled him behind a big oak tree. My intention was to give him a fast blow job to calm him down. He had on these white boxers with crazy symbols on them, but once we pulled them to his knees, his thick dick was out in the sunshine, and I got to work.

That Mormon must have been storing up his seed for a long time because I almost choked trying to swallow it all. Having paid my dues for the long drive, I paused.

"Would you do Adam?" he asked.

"I'm like the one-a-day vitamin. I don't do two guys in one day," I said, guessing that he hadn't noticed the quick handjob Brother Adam had received.

Brother Joseph patted me warmly on my head but didn't kiss me goodbye. Some guys are strange that way after you've sucked their cock; they're not into puckering up, like maybe you'll taste bad. Anyway, to each his own.

Joseph said, "Goodbye," and ran back to the old Ford pickup truck. It backfired a few times as they headed off to Salt Lake City, providing the perfect punctuation.

There was a sign pointing the way to the office, so I carried my bag down the rest of the path. Of course, the office was empty except for an old beat-up oak desk and a plastic file cabinet. I waited a while until I noticed a button ringer screwed onto a two-by-four near the desk. I hit the buzzer.

A few minutes later, a tall guy with a plaid shirt came running in. He had a big head of hair and looked a little like Howard Stern from that television talent show, except his beak had been clipped.

"Sorry to keep ya wait-in, my name is Jerry."

"Hi Jerry, I came to see the Commune."

"Here," he said, "hold on. He pulled something out of a desk drawer and said,

"Take a Kleenex. You've got some white stuff on your face."

I wiped that slug of the Mormon's cum off my cheek without comment as Jerry filled out a form that checked me in as a temporary visitor. Jerry explained that as a "temp," I could get a look and gander at what life on the Commune was like before deciding if I wanted to seek admission as a full member.

Jerry was kinda cute. He had dark curly hair, and to make things official, he put on some strange black cowboy hat with a big button that said J for J before he signed my application.

"What does that button mean?" I asked.

"Oh, that, stands for 'Jerry for Jesus.'"

"That's nice. So you like living here at the Commune?"

"Sure," he said, "you gotta chip in and work for your supper, but there are other benefits. The people here are super friendly."

I found out later that what Jerry meant by "super friendly" was that they practiced a loose Christian religion that encouraged casual sex among members. Around an evening campfire, weather permitting, members would smoke homegrown pot and cuddle.

"Where are you from, Jerr? You don't sound like you're from these parts."

"You got a good ear, Wallenda. I was born and raised in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, but I like it here a whole lot better."

I looked around for the next few days, and I must say the place impressed me. I decided to try to qualify to become a member. I learned I would have to pass a two-part medical and psychological interview.

First, there was a medical exam. A chubby black nurse had to check me for any STDs. I undressed. She took swabs of my throat and vagina. Then, a man came in wearing a white coat. I assumed he was a doctor. I was still on the GYN table naked with my feet in stirrups except for a tiny paper sheet.

The doctor started carefully checking my breasts for any lumps, asking,

"How large are these babies?"

"38 double D's," I said.

He nodded and squeezed my nipples. He said he was checking for any discharge. He lifted the paper apron and carefully examined my vagina for any infectious warts. He seemed to spend a lot of time probing and measuring. I thought he was getting off on it when he said,

"If you get married, your big breasts are gonna make some boy very happy?"

Then he told me to turn over. While palpitating my buttocks, he reached between my legs and grabbed my vulva with his two fingers probing until my clit swelled up. I was surprised that he wasn't wearing gloves. Then he inserted a cold steel spreader device between my butt cheeks.

"Hold still," he said.

The nurse came in and swabbed my asshole.

I asked the nurse why the swab was necessary. She responded,

"If you did anal with a sick guy, your butt could get infected."

The 'Doc' squirted some lube in my butt and inserted the cold metal instrument into my rectum. He called it a speculum. Then he measured my rectum.

"Kinda narrow but a good 8 1/2 inches deep."

The nurse wrote it down. I'd never been butt fucked up to that point, so I guessed I passed the test.

I did ask, "Why was my ass hole being surveyed?"

The doctor said, "I'm doing a nutrition study for the National Health Council. As you are a participant, that makes you a patriot."

That comment made me feel good.

The Doc left the room in his smock but returned wearing a plaid jacket and smoking a large pipe. I thought maybe he was Hugh Heffner, but he introduced himself as Dr. Hans Gruber, a Certified Psychologist. I was certain this was the same guy who had checked me for vaginal warts minutes before.

"Now, young lady, we will begin the psychological interview."

I laid there quasi-nude, still wearing the skimpy paper surgical outfit. The Doc asked many questions about my family, growing up, drug usage, and very personal information about my sexual experiences.

I fudged a bit, leaving out a lot of stuff, but I told him about the molestations. He said they had counselors who'd work with me. One of the girls had tipped me off, that if I wanted to join the Commune, I should blow or fuck the guy interviewing me. It was called "a test of faith."

The "test" came after all the questions when Gruber unzipped his pants. He wasn't wearing any underwear.

"It is important that you understand human male anatomy," he said.

Gruber then got up in my face with his hard-on. He asked me to hold his penis in my hand. As Guber got erect, he gently put his large hand behind my head, pushing my face closer to his throbbing dick while sliding his finger between my lips to open my mouth.

I could see what he expected, so I opened up and sucked his cock. What else could I do? His cock was not too large, and his cum load was minimal. I had no other place to go and no intention of returning on the road.

As I finished sucking his cock, he encouraged me repeatedly to swallow his load, but I just couldn't. When I spit it out, he made some notation on his pad. I was afraid I'd failed, but Gruber told me I passed. He added,

"I'll call you back to practice swallowing. We have to work on that."

I was called on several times during my stay at the Commune to practice swallowing until Guber was satisfied. When I explained my difficulty, Gruber suggested,

"If you put a penis deep in your throat, the semen will go straight down your throat, and you won't even know you've swallowed."

He was right about that. During our practice sessions, I didn't even taste the semen, unless I touched it with my tongue. When I tasted it, I really didn't mind the flavor. Every guy's cum has its own unique taste. I knew from past experience that when you've blown a guy, and he sees you taste and swallow his jizz, his eyes begin to shine. I guess swallowing jizz is a sort of compliment to the guy.

Eventually, I made every effort to master the deep throat technique in order to satisfy Guber's satisfaction. Guber would also check to see if my ass hole had enlarged during these call-back sessions. He would put a dark mask on my eyes, tell me to turn over, butt side up. Using a soft measuring probe, sort of a dildo that didn't hurt at all, he was able to keep track of my rate of enlargement, which he plotted on a graph in my medical folder. I guess as time passed, my asshole had expanded as it had become public property on the farm.

Anal sex had become second nature at the campfire orgies, where it seemed there were always more men than women. If I was being fucked by one guy, another would come up behind me, making it a threesome, squeezing his dick right up my kazoo. The last few times Guber measured my butt hole, I realized he was probing me with his bare cock. He was smiling and seemed so happy with his deception. I said nothing and played dumb as he called out the numbers,

"Nine and a half inches deep and two and a half inches wide. An increase of one inch in depth and 1 1/2 inches in width. Congratulations. If you decide to marry, your husband will greatly enjoy these statistics. You might even include them in any online profile."

"I'm not really into that 'Grinder' stuff."

"Never close your opportunity to be social," said the Doc, "The world is a big place, and your ass width will shrink if you don't use it frequently."

"Is being fucked in the ass the road to happiness?"

"The path well worn is the best road of all," said the Doc, "Was that Robert Frost?"

"Ah, Doc, maybe you should zip up your fly unless you are expecting to do more probing with your personal dipstick?"

The Doc started to smile but quickly covered it with his large hand.

By now, I figured that 'The Love Life Institute' should be called the 'Free Love Institute.' If I'd been charging for all the times my ass and pussy had found new cummers, by now, I'd be rich. I've been spared getting pregnant because Dr. Hans Gruber distributed birth control pills with orange juice every morning to all unmarried women.

When I asked, "Why no condoms?"

Gruber remarked, "Guys don't like them; rubbers kill the sensation. If God wanted guys to wear condoms, we'd be born with them."

Free love seemed to be the answer to our existence. What was the question? The question was, "Wanna fuck?" What were the consequences? UTIs were common.

The Commune was in the northeast Timpanogos Mountains in the Wasatch Range. Living on the Commune wasn't all fun and games. To remain an active member of the Commune, each member had to spend 5 to 6 hours a day tending to the main agricultural crop,--marijuana plants.

The hemp acreage was hidden in a lush valley fed by glacial streams. The secret entrance to the pot fields was through an old mining tunnel that took you 50 feet below the surface and then wound slowly back up and popped up out of the darkness into the bright sunshine on the edge of a mountain with low lying clouds and a verdant green- a virtual garden of Eden. Once you got past the visual, the strong, skunky odor of the crop almost knocked you over.

"It was as if Jesus had provided for us," Jerry said.

"The row after row of hemp plants was one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen. If we could breed a new form of marijuana that didn't have a skunky odor, we could conquer the world."

"Yeah, you and Alexander the Great," I answered

After working in the hot sun for hours, we'd get very thirsty. Fortunately,

Someone had hooked up a few solar panels and car batteries that kept an old fridge functioning as a cooler, keeping the water at an icy temperature. I never knew spring water could taste so good.

Almost every day, the members of the commune would work to care for the hemp. Once the hemp was ready to be harvested, we packed it and prepared it for shipping or delivery. We were told the pot was earmarked for people needing medical marijuana, sure!

Of course, as agricultural workers, we enjoyed sampling our produce before going back through the tunnel to return to the campgrounds. If senior members were absent, we'd smoke some of the dry plants at the end of the workday. It seemed like pretty strong stuff, hybrid Sativa, not the med-pain-killing variety that they told us we were growing. Who was in charge of this farm, and where was our product going?

At night, we'd have campfire sing-alongs, and that was when they'd give out free joints. These joints were so intoxicating I'd passed out more than once, waking up in the middle of an orgy. I couldn't remember what had happened, so I asked one of the girls who'd watched. She said it looked like I was in a trance. While I was sucking one guy's cock on all fours, different guys were taking turns jamming their dicks into my pussy. She said that she watched as I was fucked by at least six different guys in less than an hour, not counting butt fucks.

Being the new girl on the block, every guy wanted to sample a piece of me. I remember one guy who said he was not breastfed as an infant; that sucker would suck on my tits until milk came out of my nipples.

I had stayed on spending six incredible months at the Commune, but all that rough sex had its effect. I was developing a calloused vagina, and don't even ask about my kaboodle.

The Doc had arranged for me to go through several rape counseling sessions with therapists. Usually, the "therapists" were older commune members who practiced a treatment called "friendly sex." The idea was to remove any remaining rape trauma from the past by erasing them through positive sexual relations. These older members spent a great deal of time talking and gently touching before suggesting intercourse. This treatment strangely seemed to help. I stopped having rape nightmares, and the fatherly sex sessions rid me of feelings of guilt over my stepfathers raping me.

I also attended several "swallow sessions," and in the end, I was able to perform satisfactorily with patients that the Doc chose for me to practice on. At the end of those sessions, the doctor measured my throat and said it was now more elastic. My butt hole had enlarged nicely to accommodate 3 1/4 inches in width as a result of the campfire sessions with a guy who had a monster cock.

The Doc congratulated me on improving my score, saying I would not suffer constipation or digestive problems later in life. That seemed like a good trade-off for a very sore butt hole, but I wasn't sure of his prognosis.